


Revenge As Motive For Success

by MyWolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Character Death, F/F, F/M, Hunters, M/M, Magic, Murder, Parallel Universe, Time Travel, Young Cora, Young Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:07:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWolf/pseuds/MyWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Stiles meets Laura Hale, he is digging up her body for the police to find, and he doesn’t know her name. </p>
<p> The second time Stiles meets Laura Hale, she is snarling and blue eyed, younger than he has ever seen her. And she is, most importantly, very much alive. </p>
<p>_____</p>
<p> Stiles doesn't know where he is, the past? Another world?<br/>He does know that the Hales are alive, and so is his Mum, but what else is different? Why is he here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge As Motive For Success

 

 

 

The first time Stiles meets Laura Hale, he is digging up her body for the police to find, and he doesn’t know her name. She is a nameless corpse with a ripped up body, eyes wide and sightless. Stiles is not disgusted when he sees her body. He looks at her and sees a means to an end.

The end doesn’t come, and he is dragged into the world of the supernatural with his teeth digging painfully into his lip and his muscles aching. Aching glances at the moon that once meant nothing more than the passing of time.

The second time Stiles meets Laura Hale, she is snarling and blue eyed, younger than he has ever seen her. And she is, most importantly, very much alive.

Stiles suffers a moment of utter dislocation.

He is breathless as he faces her, his body is still thrumming with adrenaline, everything aching and his mind unable to comprehend the _wherewhyhowwhat?_ In his hands he holds his bat, the one he covered in Wolfsbane that time after the Alpha Pack. His shirt has been ripped off, revealing the inky tattoos that are now marred and jagged by scars old and new. There’s a harsh burning of his skin just bellow his collar bones, and he presses a shakey hand to it.

He doesn’t think…..Stiles doesn’t think he’s dead. Not like Scott. Not like Derek or Boyd or Erica or Isaac. He isn’t dead because he can still feel that hollow, ripped out hole somewhere beneath his ribcage. A black void above his gut. Hopelessness. Maybe more than his fair share of anger.

Laura is snarling at him and Stiles, Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He isn’t going to hurt her, because she’s Derek’s sister. _Was_ Derek’s sister. Fuck. There are no more Hales left. All of them are dead. Stiles has seen three of them die, he knows they’re dead.

And as Laura howls, no doubt calling the rest of her Pack. _Family_ , his mind supplies weakly, _she has her family_. Stiles tries to uncurl his fingers from his bat and _think_ , dammit.

This could be a trick, maybe he’s hallucinating or poisoned or, hell, maybe he really is dying. Dead? Dying? But Stiles has also encountered creatures that could manipulate the mind into seeing things and feeling things. They’re not nice, and usually action has to be taken to bring them down, someone rips the creatures throat out or burns them to ashes. But its just Stiles now, and if he _is_ being mind raped by some creature, then there isn’t anyone left to help him out of it.

Alternately, Stiles could be back in time, he’s read theories about time travel and wormholes and parallel universes. But this…couldn’t be a parallel universe, could it? No, that’s stupid. Stupid, but most things seem so, lately.

‘What the hell are you doing on our land? _This is private property_.’ Laura snarls, and Stiles wonders why she isn’t even trying to hide the fact that she’s a werewolf. Unless she thinks he’s a hunter, which is _highly_ likely. He _is_ standing on her property with a bloodied baseball bat that probably smells of Wolfsbane, he _is_ bloody and beaten, and he no doubt smells of other Wolves. Yeah, she thinks he’s a hunter.

Other wolves have surrounded him, while Stiles has been thinking. He makes himself blur out their faces. When he looks at them he stares over their shoulder. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to see that he’s crazy or hallucinating or whatever. He just…

‘What are your intentions?’ Someone says, and it makes Stiles want to bare his neck and go down on his knees. It reminds him of Derek’s roar, when the Betas would get too snarky or disrespectful. He’s never felt the true need to submit to Derek though. This must be what true Alpha power feels like.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then opens it again.

It’s a hell of a time to go speechless, but Stiles is still in a combative mindset. Just several minutes ago he’d been beating an Alpha Wolf’s head in, shouting for Scott, for Boyd, for _somebody_ to wake up, to _come back_.

Something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh dribbles down his lips and chin. Falls flat on the forest floor.

He can hear it echoing, even, just a little. Because all the Wolves around him are silent. Eyes glowing gold and blue and green and red. Green? He hasn’t seen green before. He wonders what it means.

‘You smell….familiar.’

And oh fuck. Oh, fuckfuckfuck.

Stiles spins in a circle, his bat swinging with him in a low arc, some of the wolves move out of the way, but warily, like they aren’t sure what’s going on anymore. He looks for the face that matches the voice, behind a couple of boys a little older than him.

‘ _Derek_.’ The Alpha admonishes, and the young Beta whoisDerekfuckingHale bows his head, eyes lowered.

But this Derek? This Derek looks so _young_ , his face rounded and smooth without the eternal scruff Stiles is so accustomed to him sporting. He looks younger than Stiles, and when he moves, it’s without that weight on his shoulders.

Stiles still can’t speak. He’s dumbstruck. This is all wrong but also so right because no one here is dead and everyone looks angry and alive and…

There’s a hand around his throat, the points of sharp claws digging in just enough to be a warning. Stiles doesn’t fight them, he doesn’t even think of fighting them because there’s something about Talia Hale that makes him want to bow at her feet and leave all of his problems for her to deal with.

He wouldn’t, because he’s never been the sort to let others fix his mistakes, but all the same, the desire is there.

Stiles stares at Derek as Talia speaks to him, they’re of the same height, but he knows better than to meet her gaze.

‘You are on Hale territory, if you have any intentions of harming my Pack, I will not hesitate to rip your throat out.’

There is a heavy silence, wherein Stiles forces his voice out between his aching throat.

‘I’ve be warned that many times, Alpha Hale.’ He says, and then, ‘I mean no harm or disrespect, I’m here because…I’m here by accident.’

They must be listening to his heart, because Talia Hale lets her hand slip away from his throat. She stares at him for a long time, something strange slipping into her expression for a moment before she turns away. Stiles feels as if he’s about to collapse, the adrenaline wearing off so abruptly it leaves him queasy.

He listens only half-heartedly as she orders some of her pack to hedge him in as they start making their way to what Stiles assumes is the Hale house. Which means they mustn’t consider him much of a threat, then.

He’s starting to feel numb. Numb in that way that makes him think he’s going to pass out soon. Without the adrenaline, everything should be hurting. The bruises he knows are going to start showing on his torso and back should be a steady ache, his arms should be quivering with the ferocity with which he attacked those Alphas. But it’s not the physical stuff that has him abruptly thankful for the numbness. It’s the emotions, he should be crying, balling his eyes out knowing that his friends are dead, and his Dad now, probably.

Stiles stumbles over a root and a hand shoots out to steady him. He should probably say thank you, but the words dry up in his throat when he turns and finds himself face to face with Peter Hale. A younger Peter Hale, younger but no less slimy, it seems.

His heart rackets up a notch, pounds against his ears and clogs his throat. It doesn’t matter that he looks different or that this eyes shine gold, to Stiles exhausted mind, he is still the same monster who tore his life apart.

Stiles feels his legs tremble beneath him as he stumbles away, cringes away from the hand steadying him. He’s aware that he’s muttering something under his breath, and that it hurts his jaw to grit his teeth so hard. He’s aware that the bat has slipped from his nerveless fingers and then the forest tumbles to one side and...

 

Stiles wakes slowly, aware that something is vitally wrong, but too tired and muddled to figure it out.

He’s somewhere warm, but beneath him it is solid and cool, a table. There are plastic wrapped hands prodding his chest and arms, a needling slicing into his flesh, stitching it together.

‘No morphine?’ Stiles mumbles, and the hands on him still.

He blinks blearily into the light above him. He is, indeed, lying on a table. Doctor Deaton is hovering over him, a pair of bloodied gloves on his hands and an inscrutable look on his face. Well, that’s not new.

What is new, however, is the other woman leaning beside the vet. Talia Hale.

Not a dream, then.

Stiles swipes a hand across his chest, ripping the needle from Deaton’s fingers and tossing the cloths pressed to the wounds. He rolls off the table and lands on unsteady feet. This can’t be happening. This is not happening.

There’s a door, he goes for it, is vaguely surprised that no one has tried to stop him.

Behind the door is a warm living room, filled with people. People like Derek and Laura and Peter and Cora and oh, god. Stiles just stands there for a long time, staring.

He can’t do this.

The layout of the house is so very similar to the plan Derek drew up, the living room leads off to the entryway, and the front door is clear glass and brass handled. It’s warm, the air outside. Smells of pine and dirt and Summer.

And it makes him so suddenly, abruptly _angry_.

If he’s gone back in time, and judging by the look of Derek, the Stiles of this time is no older than ten. Which means his Mum is still alive. Fighting cancer, but alive. A parallel universe? There couldn’t be too many differences, none that he’s seen so far. It’s probably only a matter of time before Kate Argent worms her way into Derek’s life and his heart and his house and then burns them all to the ground.

There is a presence behind him, and Stiles notices now that he’s kneeling in the grass out the front of the house, hands digging loose into the dirt. His breathing is harsh, breathes almost choked out of him. And there are tears burning at the back of his throat but his eyes are achingly dry.

‘You’re supposed to be dead.’ Stiles hears himself say, voice tight, repressed. ‘So either I’m not real, or you’re all not, and I think it’s obvious which one I’m going to prefer.’

There is silence for a long time, before soft murmurs. Feet hitting softly on the verandah and the sound of the door closing. But he can still feel someone, since developing his magic he’s been able to sense when any sort of supernatural creature is close to him. He thinks its Talia, if the humid press of her power is anything to go by. And maybe Deaton, his magic like a cool swathe of silk against the edges of Stiles’ mind.

‘I don’t know how I got here,’ Stiles says after another breath. ‘I don’t know if this is some alternate universe, a parallel reality, maybe I’ve gone back in time. Hell, I could be hallucinating or some shit.’

Stiles sits back on his haunches and surveys his hands. They’re still dirty, blood caked in the nail beds and in the creases of his skin. The added dirt, he thinks, makes him look like some kind of zombie risen from the grave. It would be funny, except that its really not.

‘And why do you think this isn’t where you belong?’ Deaton asks him in way so similar to Stiles’ Deaton, neutral, pragmatic.

Stiles lets out a rip of a laugh and turns slightly to look at them out of the corner of his eye.

He thinks he can remember Talia, remembers seeing her around town when he was younger, at school when she came to pick Cora up. The fire was a big shock to the town, but at the time Stiles had been dealing with the slow death of his own Mother, and hadn’t paid all too much attention. He imagines that that was why his Dad was working so much. Why he wasn’t there when Claudia finally passed away.

‘I don’t belong,’ He says, eventually. ‘Because where I come from, all the Hales are dead. Burned. Gone. Slaughtered. Where I come from, the Pack is being attacked by a rogue Alpha and his merry band of insane Betas.

I don’t….this isn’t right. But it kind of _really_ is…’

He chokes off, a garbled sound escaping when he tries to let out a deep breath. He’s aware, distantly, the he’s having a panic attack, but it really isn’t a vital fact.

The ground is soft under him. The grass a cool slide on his skin.

Stiles imagines the scene back home, the bodies of all the people he cares about laid out on the forest floor like broken dolls who’s china skulls have been cracked and caved him. He imagines Derek the way he last saw him, the red bleeding out of his eyes and his throat torn open to reveal the white, stark sight of bone.

 

For the second time, Stiles wakes in this strange place with hands on him. Except now he’s curled up in soft blankets that smell faintly of woodsy oak and detergent. Stiles presses his face into the pillow to escape the finger poking at his cheek.

‘What?’ He mumbles tiredly. He thinks, maybe if he just closes his eyes again, everything will be back to normal.

‘You’ve been sleeping for aaaaages.’ Says a somewhat familiar voice.

Stiles opens an eye and gazes at Cora blearily. She’s perhaps ten, maybe eleven. Big brown eyes that look so much lighter and larger than the last time he saw them. Not tainted by death and insanity, he supposes. Her dark brown hair is cut in a messy bob around her young face.

‘Maybe I’m asleep, now.’ Stiles murmurs, turning away from the small Werewolf and burrowing into the blankets. They’re warm and solid and maybe he shouldn’t be clinging so desperately, but it’s a grounding point, an anchor where he feels like he’s drifting.

Cora huffs.

‘You smell like Pack.’ She says almost accusingly, as if Stiles is trying to confuse her on purpose.

Stiles huffs, and says. ‘Not your Pack.’ Because they’re not.

‘Well, you’re ours now.’

Stiles feels the bed dip as she climbs up beside him and then the warmth of her small body against his back, pressed back to back like a live hot water bottle or heater. His own personal heater. It’s nice. But it reminds him of Scott, when they would fall asleep after a movie marathon or game night.

He drifts back to sleep with Cora rumbling dully against his back. And when he wakes again, its dusk, an orange glow growing dim behind the trees.

He shifts, Cora is still with him. Making him sweat. He wonders, idly, why she’s being so cuddly. They don’t know each other at this stage, there’s a year difference between them, and even in his own world/time/universe, their relationship had been based on a mutual desire to survive. But maybe, as she’d said, he does smell like Pack, enough for her to want to be near him.

The numbness is back. But his body feels heavy and achy, muscles lined with lead and blood turning to sludge. His mind rears back when he thinks about them. His mind pushes and shoves until that grief is just a heavy weight at the back of his mind, weighing his skull down.

‘How are you feeling?’

Stiles raises his head to look over his shoulder. Talia is standing at the doorway to the bedroom, and she looks as regal as ever, but her face has softened from the wary anger and resistance.

‘Fine.’ Stiles says. Because what else can he say? ‘I’m fine.’

Talia dips her head. ‘I don’t believe you, but that’s okay for now.’

The Alpha moves to the bed, she brushes the hair away from Cora’s face with a gentleness that reminds Stiles of his mum. Soft fingers traveling through his short hair when he couldn’t sleep. Cora, even in sleep, presses toward her mother for instinctual comfort.

‘What do we do now?’ Stiles mumbles, rubbing his cheek against the softness of the pillow case and trying to imagine this was all a dream.

‘What happens is, you will talk to Deaton and Jane, tell them everything you remember, so maybe we can sort this out for you.’ Talia tells him.

‘Jane?’

‘My husbands sister, a wolf but still knowledgeable in all things magic and mystic.’

Stiles can hear the hint of a smile in her voice. He doesn’t remember a Jane, in the list of bodies reeled by the papers and internet. But maybe she wasn’t at the Hale house at the time of the fire, and escaped her own death whilst suffering the loss of her whole family.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the hiatus on my other fics, I'll be working on this one for the time being, thanks for your patience!


End file.
